


Slade/Oliver Drabbles

by Shaish



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Lian Yu, M/M, Makeouts, Modern Day, Multi, Sparring, Touching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 20:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13061538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaish/pseuds/Shaish
Summary: 1. Modern day introspection2. Island sparring turned makeout I guessTwo chapters for now, idk if there will be more.





	1. Island

**Author's Note:**

> Haaaaaaaa the second one I wrote like three years ago apparently when I was last into this ship. The first one I wrote the other night bc I got sucked back in and have been binging. I have no idea how to write them but I needed to do _something_.

Oliver runs his fingers back along the side of Slade’s head, feels the shift of the short gray hair streaked there against the pads. He holds Slade’s stare, watches his dark eye watch him. It’s hard to look at him like this. Looking at someone who knows him more than even he will ever know himself, past the flesh and bone and sinew of his body into what makes him the person he is. All the good, all the bad. 

He wants to look away; he can’t bring himself to.

Slade made him, and Shado, laid down the bones and infrastructure, the bare flooring and walls, gave him the tools to survive, to kill, to live in a place where his next minute could be the last, where a wrong step or a broken bone could be the end of him, and a promise to his father’s ghost wouldn’t spare him. Slade carved him into something else, something harder, sturdier, sharper. Shado taught him balance, control, the cool, crescent moon to Slade’s raging sunlight that burnt his skin. She tempered him through Slade’s forging, and Oliver misses her, still, thinks he always will, a large part of him that no longer breathes. She is a carved out crescent below where her thin fingers had rested against his breastbone, the arch of an archer’s bow in his left side, Slade’s swords still stabbed through the center of his being like a crucifix, like the hairsticks Shadow used to keep her hair up with sometimes, trying to hold it all up, together.

He shifts his other hand, brushes his thumb lightly over the tendon on the side of Slade’s neck, the impossibly warm, smooth skin beneath his rough fingerpad. He feels Slade’s hands on him shift, the one on his side curved along his ribcage and the one on his hip, skin warm like the sunlight coming from the top right window above their heads. Slade stares up at him, eye darker than the eyepatch he wears, shifting between Oliver’s gaze. Oliver thinks it’s been half an hour of them doing this, Oliver sitting naked stradling Slade’s lap, gazing down at him in mutual silence. What words are there to say to someone who already knows all of them.

_“So what was he? Your boyfriend?” Felicity half asks, half accuses, bright LED lights in the base hitting her shining hair and glasses lenses._

Oliver hadn’t said anything, had stared into her eyes, the frustrated bow of her lips, then into Diggle’s dark eyes, the way his own mouth pressed into a line of things he didn’t say or ask or demand of him, even though his arms were crossed across his chest like he’d wanted to.

 _No_ , Oliver had thought then, Slade was never his boyfriend, his lover, was never something so soft. What they were didn’t have a neat label he could put on it. Slade saved him, made him, helped him, talked to him, sometimes, not the hard comments or the hard words he used in the daylight or during training, but something quieter, in the firelight and hooting owls beyond the fuselage. Slade was heat, and hard curves and rough edges, like a staggering cliff face. Sometimes, not often, they’d crash against each other, Oliver’s raging ocean against Slade’s immovable stone. There were rough hands, rough touches, hard kisses and harsh bites.

Sometimes it was gentle, sometimes it was grazing fingers that lingered, but it was never soft, never romantic like the movies he’d seen, like half of the girls he’d been with, like Laurel. But it was something, it is something, even when he’d tried to bury it with Slade’s memory. It came up with the knowledge that Slade was alive, harder than seeing his hallucination, kicked him in the stomach like Slade’s shin when Oliver hadn’t reacted fast enough, knocked the breath out of him and sent him to the floor gasping, struggling to reorient himself. It came up through the dirt and stones and ocean almost like he’d never buried it at all, except he could still smell the fire and the salt of the water, hear the ringing in his ears from the explosion, the water crashing against the ship’s metal and the island’s rocks, see the arrow sticking out of Slade’s eye, could almost feel the thin, damp wood in his hand from where he’d gripped it tight. 

Whatever they were, whatever was between them, it was never soft.

He stares down at Slade, thinking, not thinking, just taking him in. It doesn’t last, it can’t. Slade tilts his head up a fraction and Oliver responds as smooth as water, head lowering down the few inches he needs to press their chapped lips firmly together, Slade pushing up a little to make it harder. Slade’s lips part under his own and he tastes the same, like last night and bourbon. Oliver guesses his own taste isn’t too far off when Slade’s tongue presses past into his own mouth. Slade’s hand shifts from his side around to his spine, slides down smooth and scarred skin to beneath the sheets bunched at his waist, and Oliver breathes in slow through his nose. A hand grip just above his ass, fingers digging in, and Oliver leans until they’re pressed together, chest to hip.

It still isn’t soft, it still isn’t romance, but it burns harsh and bright, and it’s real.


	2. Things change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like past me had a better handle on these characters

_Whack_ -

Oliver lets out a grunt as he doubles over, curling protectively towards his abused side.

" _Again_."

They've been at this for what feels like _hours_.

He mostly uncurls and raises his stick, charging at Slade with a down sweep, moisture sticking to his hair and skin from sweat and an earlier rain. Slade's a gray and black target on low hanging, bruise colored clouds in the distance and bright green grass all around them. 

His attack is blocked and parried, and then Slade's spinning with a fast downswing that Oliver just manages to block with a _clack_ of stick on stick. Slade presses in close, eyes hard and calculating, and Oliver's just about to try and attack again (before Slade does) when Slade eases up the pressure, just slightly. 

"You wanna blow off some steam?" he asks, and for a moment it throws Oliver for a loop. 

"What?" he asks, "What do you mean?"

Slade steps in a foot closer, close enough for Oliver to feel the heat coming off of him in droves, even through the clothes and armor. "I think you know what I mean," he says a little lower, still looking up at him hard and calculating. 

"Oh," Oliver says quietly, trying to stare right back. Giving Slade an inch is asking for it, with _everything_. "I-..." he trails off, thinking of Sara, of Laurel. 

But he's trapped on a forsaken island somewhere in China. It's been him and his hand when he _does_ manage to get hard, and he'd have to be blind not to see Slade's appeal, or the relief another body might bring instead of having to be content with his own. Again.

Slade's eyes are starting to shutter and Oliver sees him starting to take a step back, and says-

"Yeah."

Slade pauses, watching him.

"Sure. I mean yes," Oliver fumbles, mentally kicking himself for what _has_ to be the thousandth time in a seemingly endless string of months.

Slade studies his face for a moment before his lips curve up, slow, like the cat that got the canary (and he'll find _that_ ironic later). He pushes forward and Oliver stumbles back until he hits a wide expanse of solid, curved metal, Slade's training stick pressed hard just beneath his throat. 

"Are you sure you can handle it?" Slade taunts, close enough that Oliver can just barely feel the press of hard lines into his body and feel hot breath ghost across his lips. 

He stares down. 

He never realized how brown Slade's eyes could be in the daytime. Not that he's being romantic, because this is and will be _far_ from romantic, it just...makes Slade seem a bit more human.

"I've been able to handle everything else you've thrown at me," he throws back.

Slade's lips curve up more, showing teeth, and then Slade's mouth is on his.

It's warmer than Oliver expected, but he's been perpetually cold since the Queen's Gambit went down, but it's just as hard and harsh as he was expecting, Slade written all over.

Oliver kisses back and tries to give as good as he gets, but it's hard to keep up. It's not that he hasn't experimented before, 'experiment' was practically his middle name from fifteen to present, it's just that _Slade_ is hard to keep up with. But _that's_ nothing new.

The stick disappears from his throat and he drops his own, barely aware of the sound the four of them make when they tumble to the ground as Slade's hands find his hips, sliding up while their tongues practically battle. It's different than Oliver's used to, Slade’s lips rough and chapped, his hands wider and firmer, but it still manages to be exciting (and the most excitement he's had on this island, at least one that's not trying to beat him or kill him. At Least, so far).

Slade's gloved hands slide up his sides and Oliver breaks the kiss to let out a hiss when they press hard over what he’s sure are bruises. Slade's grip eases up as he speaks against his lips.

"Can't handle it," he taunts.

" _Yes I can_ ," Oliver replies stubbornly, grabbing hold of Slade's shoulders and yanking him forward, body to body through their clothes. 

Slade groans and Oliver winces as Slade's hands slide back down to grip his hips, but groans back all the same when he grinds up.

Slade pins him to the outside of the plane by his hips and grinds back.

\--

It doesn't become a regular thing, exactly, but it does become something they do sometimes. Sometimes Slade will instigate it, sometimes Oliver, but it's never soft and it's never romantic, and part of Oliver comes to like it that way. It becomes something he can depend on to stay the same, even though he knows that he shouldn't. 

And then Shado joins them and things...things actually stay the same, for the most part. The only difference is Oliver starts forming something with her, something that quickly gets...soft, almost kind, and after watching her and Slade spar a few times, he's not surprised when Shado and Slade do something similar. 

Sometimes Oliver wonders if Slade treats her more gently, but he gets the feeling Shado would have his head if he did. She’s gentle around Oliver for the most part though, and it's...nice.

He still thinks of Laurel everyday and gradually tries not to, at least not when he’s not alone. He doesn't want to mix the two, his life here and his life in Starling City.

(And sometimes, as much as he misses the city, he finds he likes it better here, the simpler truth of surviving and taking what you can, and trusting the two people closest to you, enough to have your back).

\--

Ivo and his men come and with them, Sara, and things go to hell, all without Fyers' help.


End file.
